Brune Gorinchem

🍺 Brune Gorinchem – The Innkeeper of the Slumbering Dragon

The man behind the bar looks up as you enter—not startled, not surprised. His dark eyes take you in with the casual precision of someone who’s seen every kind of traveler walk through that door and isn’t impressed by any of them.

He’s in his forties, broad-shouldered and neatly kept. His salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back cleanly, beard trimmed close to the jaw. A faded linen shirt clings to him, sleeves rolled up past the elbows, and a weather-stained leather apron covers most of his front. He wipes his hands on a bar towel that never seems to leave his belt loop.

You wouldn't think much of him at first glance—just another barkeep with the look of an ex-mercenary or a soldier too proud to talk about old wounds. But up close, the details creep in.

The leather apron’s too heavy. Reinforced. The bracers on his forearms? Stitched like armor. And the butcher’s cleaver hanging from the hooks behind the bar isn’t the kind you’d use on pork. It’s curved, polished, and bears the faint glint of something... carved.

You spot a small, compact crossbow half-hidden under the counter—mounted on a silent swivel, just in reach.

Brune doesn’t smile much, but when he does, it’s polite and dry, like someone offering condolences more than hospitality.

“Rooms are clean. The beer’s passable. Don’t ask about the cellar.”

And just like that, he turns away—already polishing another glass, as if you were never there at all.